


The Rowan and the Alder

by TheGroupofOne (orphan_account)



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: :(, Alternate Universe- Druids, Druids, Due to months long writers block, Half-assed research mybad, Injured Marcus, M/M, Paganism, Ritual Sex, dub-con, this be orphaned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheGroupofOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Injured during a skirmish, Marcus stumbles across a Druids Sacred Grove and promptly passes out.  The Druid, Esca, decides to toy with him before sacrificing him to his gods.<br/>Unfortunately, he finds himself falling for the honourable quite Roman who is not as Roman as he wants people to think...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Felled Alder

 

 

_The Felled Alder_

 

Esca Mac Cunoval, Druid of the Sacred Grove of the Brigantes, Invoker of the Fires of Beltaine, was furious.

He had spent the day praying for the safe return of their warriors from battle (Esca was not able to follow them to battle due to his just being twice born that morning, and he swears his father decided to go to battle at that time on purpose) and now, in the cool dusk light, his prayers had been answered. But it seemed that the gods had decided to add a twist to it.

A Roman had entered his sacred grove.

He crept through the calm forest, feet silent on the leaves. His grove was for the clans eyes only, and the mere thought of a Roman seeing it brought fire to his blood. It was wrong. It was unholy. It was his duty to make the Roman pay, to suffer and beg for his life before spilling his lifeblood on the sacred alter. Only the Brigantes had set foot in the sacred area and it was old as the stones that stood guard.

He rounded the well by the old oak tree and stopped, hidden in its shadows. A figure was stumbling along past the standing stones, pausing to slump against the holy stones. Esca stifled a snarl. _How_ dare _he_! The Roman had just sealed his fate. His death would be quick now, the need to purify overcoming the need for pain. Incapacitate with the dagger, then burn his remains.

Furious, Esca started a prayer of destruction and slid out his dagger. “Fire of offering, you burn the sacrifice, making it fit for the gods, -”

The Roman, in an unexpected move, collapsed. His body sprawled at the base of the stones, one leg angled awkwardly.

Esca blinked. Well, that was unexpected.

 

*******

 

Marcus Flavius Aquila was lost and in pain.

He had been leading a patrol through the forest when they were suddenly set upon by tribal warriors who emerged from the fog like ghosts. His terrified men had tried to fight back, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. So he ordered a retreat.

The cries of his men dying still echoed through his mind. As far as he knew, none made it back to the safety of the wall, even though it was scarcely out of sight. He had taken a spear thrust to the leg before collapsing in a furze growth.

Upon regaining consciousness, heading on to dusk, he hauled himself to his feet and limped off towards... anywhere really. He was so far gone with pain and fever that his only thought was finding a safe spot to curl up and sweat out the fever. Or die, if the amount of blood pouring from his wound was any indication.  
It was a slow way to die, but he was ready.

The sky was turning dark purple and the new moon did not help with the darkness of the forest. Marcus found himself wandering further and further into the woods, panting and clammy with sweat.

Too out of it to pay attention to his surrounding, he suddenly found himself in a grove, face to face with some standing stones.

_'Oh, Mithras, no...'_

Marcus may be a Roman, but he was a smart one. When his father disappeared north of the wall, Marcus took it upon himself to learn about the enemies who killed the man he idolized. So he knew better than most Romans about the danger presented to him by the apparently serene grove. The dolmens warned him that this grove presented more danger then most. A Druid inhabited this sacred spot.

He collapsed against the sacred stones before him as the world spun and turned black around him. The last thought to cross his mind before the darkness took him was, ' _ Death it is, then. Forgive me for the trespass,  _ _Nemetona. I did not know.'_

With that, darkness embraced him.

 

*** * ***

 

When Marcus woke, it was dark all around him. So dark, in fact, that he could not see his own hand when raised before him. Was he blind? Had the wound become infected and the infection spread to his eyes?

There was a faint scuffing sound behind him and he twisted in a vain attempt to see. More darkness.

“Who's there?” His voice came out harsh and cracking with disuse and thirst. He winced before quickly composing his features. To show weakness even when alone was unacceptable of a follower of Mithras.

_'Mithras, lord of Light, Truth, and Loyalty. Let me not bring shame upon my family name. Let me not stray off your path of truth. Let my strength remain even in the Dark.'_

 

No one who knew Marcus, except perhaps his mother but she was long gone, knew of his fear of the dark. It had started when he was young and had wandered into a cave that collapsed behind him, leaving him trapped in the dark for almost a day, terrified out of his mind. The shadows surrounding him had seemed to move with a life of their own, promising a slow death and eternal dark. It was only the arrival of his father and his lantern that saved him from surrendering to the dark.

He had joined the Cult of Mithraism, held in an underground temple, all male, in an attempt to rid himself of the fear. But it did not work. Even in the silent nights at the fort he had to keep a lamp nearby, flickering shadows on his walls.

 

A faint sound came from his left and his head whipped around. “Who's th-”

The cool flat of a blade pressed against his lips, silencing them for fear of having them cut off. Ah. The Druid. Marcus bit the inside of his lip, attempting to keep his expression blank. Even though he could not see the Druid, they were know to contain powers, and for all he knew that could involve seeing in the dark.

“Roman,” a husky male voice sounded beside him, “do you know what you have done, by wandering into my sacred grove?”

Marcus swallowed dryly.

“I should kill you right now, spill your blood in the name of my gods and dance over your dead body. It is what I have done before and shall do yet again. But I think I shall have some fun with you, Centurion.” He spat out the last word, disgust evident in his tone.

Marcus lifted his head, pride overriding nerves and turned to face where he thought the voice came from. “I will not beg or cry, Druid.” No. To beg was dishonour, to cry was shame. He would stay true to the teachings of Mithras and his honour.

“Good.” The whisper faint sound shifted to behind him. “That makes it all the more fun when I finally destroy you.”

There was a tug at Marcus' hands, bound by rope he realized, and they were free.

“You are in my realm, Roman. Darkness and fire. The fires of Belenus will feed upon you bones, and Pen Annwen will deny you entrance to the underworld.”

Marcus bit back the retort that they were not his gods and could not do anything to him, but he was on foreign soil, in enemy territory. Did his gods stay with him now, in this realm of death and magic? He was going to die, but he did not want to die yet.

He soon found himself in the dark alone. Cautiously he shifted his hands around, dragging them through compacted dirt and pebbles. Reaching his face, Marcus gently felt for a blindfold or anything to explain the all encompassing dark. No luck. The dark was real, and he did not believe himself to be blind.

The terror rose in his throat, thick and chocking.  _'Mithras, Lord of Light, guide me through the night_ .'

Once the terror had abated a bit, he reached down to his injured leg, the pain a constant throb that had been ignored until then, and came in contact with a cloth bandage. There was no blood seeping through and the cloth seemed new. Even if the Briton wanted him dead, it seemed he did not want the injury to rob him of Marcus' death.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, Marcus was not blind. He wandered out of the mound and into the dimly lit forest. It was dawn now and normally the forest would be better lit, but this one seemed to be unnaturally shrouded. Glancing up, he noted that the trees seemed to lean inwards and only a small gap between the branches let the sun it. And, presumably, the moon.

It was unusual for a sacred grove to be so covered, if what he learned was true. They tended to be open to the skies for more access to the powers of the sun and moon and sky. Maybe this Druid dealt with the darker powers Marcus had heard whispers of. If so, he was in for a lot of pain and humiliation.

He took a deep breath and limped out. First thing he needed to do was find his weapons. Glancing around, he hobbled over to the sacred stones where he had collapsed earlier. Kneeling down, stretching out his wounded leg so as not to aggravate the injury, he peered at the dirt.

The Druid had stripped him of his armour and sandals, left him with just his undershirt and braccae. It appeared that he had removed anything that could be used as a weapon.

_Including his carved eagle._

Marcus swore, lurching to his feet and snarled at the surrounding forest. “Where is my necklace,  _ Druid _ ?!”

Silence answered him. Marcus twisted, a muscle fluttering in his jaw as he worked to control his rage.

“What is so important about it, Roman?” came the soft enquiry, seemingly from everywhere.

Marcus paused, clenching his jaw tighter. If he told him about the meaning, the almost sacred aspect of the little carved eagle to his enemy, he might use it against him. Shit. “Nothing. It is just a charm. Given to me.”

“By whom? You seemed to almost... panic there.” Marcus chose to ignore the self-satisfied tone.

“It is just a charm, Druid. Give it back. I will not do anything with it.” As much as he wanted to strangle the infuriating man, Marcus would not. If he gave it back, it would be dishonourable to harm the man with it.

The silence returned around him and Marcus clenched his fists, deciding to let it go for now. If he pushed it, the man would likely destroy it.

The sun was rising higher now, and Marcus became acutely aware of the thirst. His tongue felt heavy and dry and his movements were turning sluggish. He looked around and, spotting the well, made his way over to it. Upon reaching it, he let out a quiet moan. The well was deep, dark, and moist, but the bucket and rope had been removed.

It appeared that the Druid was quite sadistic. All the worse for him.

 

* * *

 

Perched up in an old Alder tree, Esca grinned wolfishly. The Roman had just discovered the well. He was actually quite proud of that mind fuck. To be so close to water, yet so far...

Little did the Roman know, but the closest river or natural spring was far away. Well, there was one spring close by, but it was hidden from view and Esca doubted that the man would be able to find his own dick, let alone a hidden spring at the moment. He looked quite delirious with thirst.

He lounged along the branch and casually started to fiddle with the little carved eagle. Turning it around in his palm, he frowned lightly. It was clearly more significant to the Roman than he let on; it's smooth wooden shape worn with handling. The leather thong it was attached to was worn, but well kept, so the man must treasure it.

Esca felt a twinge of guilt at taking it, but quickly stifled it. The Romans enslaved his people and destroyed their sacred spots with no thought for them, so he would not let this soldier feel his pity.

Glancing down at the grove, he smirked as his eyes landed on the man trying to form a cup and rod from a fallen branch and mushroom. Futile. And the mushroom was fae cursed. Esca frowned. Hopefully the Roman wouldn't eat it. That could end badly and he really did want to kill the man himself.

Esca sat in the tree and watched the Roman try and fail at getting water from the well until the sun was high overhead. He glanced away for a moment but a loud thud brought his attention back.

The Centurion was laying face down on the grass by the well. Esca blinked. For such a seemingly powerful man, he sure spent a lot of time unconscious.

Cautiously, in case the man was faking it and waiting to attack, Esca climbed down the tree and lay a palm against it, whispering his thanks, before heading over to the listless form. Crouching a few feet away, he grabbed the branch (now laying a few inches from the man outstretched hand) and poked at the others side.

A muffled grunt greeted him, but no movement.

Oh dear. This would not do. The Roman had to live to endure Esca's torturing him and eventually killing him (he was torn between burning him in a wicker man, slitting his throat, or offering him as a live sacrifice and let the wolves have him). Sighing heavily, he placed the branch beside him and reached out to grab a fistful of the others shirt, rolling him onto his back.

Esca sucked in a breath.

The mans form was dominating even from a distance, and Esca had first hand experience on how thickly roped his thigh muscles were, but he had yet to study the others face in daylight.

He was exquisite. A strong jaw, full lower lip, and dark slashes of eyebrows greeting Esca's curious (and slightly heated, as much as he hated to admit it) eyes. A bruise marred one cheek from when he collapsed earlier and there was a curious brand on his forehead, but other than that he was scar free.

A scowl crossed the Druids face. It was not right. Such a perfect specimen of a warrior being a Roman was just  _ wrong _ . If he had been born a Briton...

A quick shake of the head dislodged the dangerous path his thoughts were heading and he untied his water skin before sliding a hand under the others head, lifting it up slightly to pour water into his parched mouth.

“Do not chock on the water, Roman. It will just annoy me.”

After trickling some more water into the mans mouth, Esca capped the skin and retreated to the woods. He had to decide on the fate awaiting him.

 

* * *

 

Marcus awoke to a strange sight. Tilting his head to the side, he stared in wonder at the skin of water and chunk of cooked venison dangling from a rope high above his head. He blinked. What the-

“Hello Roman.” The husky voice rang out around him, causing him to jerk slightly. “I brought you food and water.”

Marcus scowled. “What use is it if I cannot reach it?”

A chuckle. “Consider it initiative.”

“For what?” Marcus slowly stood, blinking the spots away from his vision. What was the Druid up to?

“I ask you a question, you answer. You do that and I will offer the food.”

Marcus bit his lip, mulling it over. “What type of questions?” If they were about important officials or weaknesses in the army, he would sooner hang himself from the rope. Better death before betrayal.

“Just simple ones. I am curious about your customs and way of life. And you are... interesting. For a Roman.”

“Fine.”

The silence that followed seemed laced with eager anticipation, and Marcus wondered what he had just got himself into. A rustle from a nearby tree drew Marcus' attention and he twisted his head to glance at it out of the corner of his eye. The leaves were too dense though, and all he could see was a single foot dangling from a thick branch.

A small foot. Marcus blink. Surely his captor was a strong man. The Druids he had glimpsed in the part were all tall and strong, intimidating. Their appearance was part of the reason why the men stationed on the wall were so scared of them.

But that foot... If Marcus' guess was correct, and it usually was, the owner of it could not be taller than his shoulder, maybe just reaching his chin. And it was so delicate looking.

“What is your name, Roman?”

Well, that was easy enough. Marcus doubted that the Briton would know the significance of his name, and even if he did, he was already lined up for a sacrifice. “Marcus Flavius Aquila.”

“Marcus.” The foreign word seemed to caress the Druids tongue and sounded strange when pronounced with the lilt of his accent. Come to think of it, how did the Briton know Latin? Damn. It seemed there were many things Marcus was not aware of.

“Why are you here, Marcus?” The foot was starting to swing idly up in the tree.

“I- Our grain was taking a long time to arrive. I decided to take a patrol out to look into it. Some of the Britons attacked us and I was injured. Ended up here.” A hot flush of shame rose up Marcus' neck at the memory.

“Ah.” The single sound seemed to drip with contempt. “So you abandoned your men to death.”

“No!” Marcus turned to scowl up at the tree. “ _Never_! I ordered a retreat in hope that they would make it to the wall. The only reason why I am not with them, living or dead, is that I took a spear to the leg and passed out from blood loss!” His hands were clenched in tight fists be his sides, stance rigid.

Up in the tree, Esca jerked back in shock. A Roman with honour? Who would have fought and died with his men? Oh, the gods had wasted this man. If only...

That was enough questions for the day.

“Mm. I shall be back with more questions later, Roman.” He must remember what this man was. A Roman, honour or not. “The food is there if you want it.”

He leap onto a nearby branch and quickly jumped away, tree to tree, the Romans spluttering music to his ears.

He  _ had _ said offer, not give.


	2. The Burning Rowan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dub-con in this part near the end. :P

Two days had passed. Two days without food and just the barest trickles of water appearing in hollowed stone pockets. Marcus was dying and it was terrible.

He wanted to beg the Druid for food, for more water, but he could not. Not while his pride remained. He took to standing in the cool cave opening during the hottest hours of the day, far in enough that he was out of the sun, but not immersed in the dark.

Every few hours he said a prayer to Mithras, silently asking for help from his ancestors. The worst part of dying was that they did not respond. But he held strong, trying to keep a cool appearance to the hidden enemy.

Over the last two days, Marcus had learned little of the other man. He found that the Druid liked to swing his legs when straddling a branch, that he could fill a silence with a thousand emotions and thoughts (which was strange when Marcus thought of it. How does one fill silence with words?), and he was gifted with the ability to see in the dark.

Marcus had discovered the last part the night before. He had attempted to take advantage of the dark by sneaking off into the shadows (even as his heart attempted to pound its way out of his chest), when the Druids voice had sounded behind him

“Where do you think you are going, Roman?” There had been a dangerous edge to the tone.

Marcus had scowled and crossed his arms, sure he was one with the shadows of the trees. The Druid had proven him wrong by telling him to stop pouting like a spoiled child and get back to the grove.

When asked as to how he could see, the Druid had quietly replied, “My masters are rulers of Light and Dark. It is only fitting that the one who serves them can see in both.” And that had been the end of the conversation.

The Briton had continued his questions over the two days, asking about Roman traditions and ideals, their literature and art. At the end of each question session, he left food and water hanging just out of Marcus' reach.

It was infuriating.

It was torture.

Marcus sat, propped up against the cool rock of a dolmen, eyes half lidded and mind fuzzy. He was not going to last much longer at this rate.

“Marcus.”

He grunted, blinking slowly.

“Answer me this truly and I shall give you the food and water. Why do you fight for the people who invade our lands?”

The silence this time was from Marcus as he attempted to focus on the question. A tough question too. At last, as he could start to feel the annoyance emanating from the hidden Druid, Marcus licked his lips. “Family. Honour. Because I must.”

“What do you mean by that?”

How to explain it? He would need to tell the full truth and not partial in order to answer it, and when the Druid heard his reasons, he may kill him sooner. But Marcus needed to live, if not for himself then for his fathers memory.

“My father. When I was a boy, he came over the wall with the Ninth Legion. He carried the gold eagle with pride and brought strength to his men. But... the Ninth disappeared, and my father with them. No one knows what happened to them or the eagle.”

Up in the oak tree close by, Esca felt like he had been punched. Golden eagle. His future sacrifice was the son of the man who came to kill them so many years before? He shot a furtive glance at the cave entrance. Oh, the gods were smiling on him.

“With the disappearance came shame to my mother and I. Whispers of traitor and dishonour followed us until my mother could not take it anymore. When she died, I vowed to regain the family honour. But,” Marcus broke off with a self deprecating laugh, “it looks like I failed, doesn't it, Druid. I am to end up in a pit with no burial rights and my family honour tarnished yet again.” He crossed his arms, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

Esca swallowed. “What of the 'I must' part?”

“The only way to regain honour without finding the eagle is to gain it in battle. The only place I would consider earning that is the land where my father disappeared.” A pause. “I do not hate your people, if that is what you ask, Briton. I do not like what happened to my father, but I do not blame all for what few did.”

Esca found himself hating this man. He was just so... the opposite of what a Roman was supposed to be. Esca wanted him to be overly proud and dishonourable. He wanted Marcus to beg and sob and weep. He wanted Marcus to hate everyone for no reason. But damn, he did not.

Marcus defied all that Rome stood for in the eyes of the Brigantes and other clans. And for that, Esca found himself wishing the man had never stumbled across his grove.

It was with a troubled heart that Esca threw the food and water into the clearing and retreated.  
  


***  
  


Something had shifted in their relationship. Esca had taken to avoiding Marcus in a vain attempt to ignore the feelings evoked by the Roman during their conversation so many days ago.

But now, in the early hours of May 1st, Esca found himself on top of a hillside by his grove, watching the new day dawn.  
' _Belenus, hear my plea. What am I to do with Marcus?'_

Silence and growing light answered his plea, offering no help. Esca crouched, carding hands through his thick mane of hair. The Roman had to be sacrificed. By disturbing the sacred grove and dishonouring the gods he brought it upon himself.

But Marcus was so honourable, so pure, compared to the others who came upon the grove. It felt wrong to bring eternal dark upon someone so bright. Esca clenched his eyes shut, biting his lip. If his people found out about Marcus, they would demand that Esca kill him, that he sacrifice Marcus tonight. It would be fitting after all; Beltaine marked the start of the light half of the year and the time when balance was needed.

To kill Marcus would bring the balance for his disruption of the grove, but there had to be another way. Esca found himself with every passing day wanting the man to live.

He stayed on the hillside, crouched in despair, for nearly an hour before rising and turning back to the grove, decided.

 

* * *

 

When Esca entered the grove, he found Marcus asleep beside one of the sacred stones. As he approached, Esca noted how the Roman slept. Curled around the stone, his hand dipped into one of the hollows of the stone, face peaceful. Marcus unlikely knew of the significance of the hollows on the stone during Beltaine, and it just solidified Esca's decision.

As quietly as possible, Esca took out a strip of cloth from a pocket and placed his hands across Marcus' eyes.

Marcus jerked awake, a confused sound upon his lips.

“Quiet, Roman. Or else I shall change my mind.”

Marcus shut his mouth with a snap, throat clicking as he swallowed. Esca could feel his eyelashes blink against his hand and held his breath, a tingle racing down his arms from the contact. Ignoring Marcus' obvious confusion, he quickly replaced his hand with the cloth, marking sure Marcus could not see him. He then shifted his hand to the muscled arm and tugged the Roman to his feet.

“Come with me, and do not try to escape. If you do, I will kill you.”

Tugging Marcus after him, Esca headed into the earthen mound where he had first placed him. He lead the other man into the dark, half a dozen strides from the mouth of the cave. Finding the upright log buried deep in the earth, Esca turned Marcus so that his back was to it and tied the others hands to it, insuring the other was shackled before untying the blindfold.

“Druid, what-”

“I told you to be silent, Roman. You are to stay here. Today is Beltaine, and the sacred fires must be fed by human flesh.”

He could see the realization set in Marcus' shoulders, the slight slump of defeat before they straightened again, pride demanding that he not show weakness even in the face of death.   
“The tree you are tied to is Rowan, Marcus. If you knew more about our ways, it would seem very fitting.” Esca turned back to the mouth of the cave, sure in the fact that the sun from outside would give just the outline of his figure away, that Marcus could not see his face.

“I shall be back as the sun sets. My people gather here for the sacrifice. If you cry out, the fire will seem merciful compared to what they do. Do not expect any mercy. Many have lost loved ones to your people.”

 

* * *

 

As the day wore on, Marcus became increasingly panicked. The Druids people kept coming into the grove to offer milk to the little people (by pouring it in the hollows in the sacred stones) or to pass their ailing children through the holes in the stones, and random young lovers were offering birch wreathes to each other.

The only thing keeping Marcus from crying out and breaking down was the sight of a young man who kept appearing to tend to a giant fire in the middle of the grove. His constant appearance in all the chaos help bring some normality to the Roman, and it was entrancing watching the lithe grace with which he moved.

The Druid would likely walk like that, it occurred to him. But not once did he see someone wearing the sacred white robes Marcus had heard whispered of.

Soon it was dusk, and the clan was gathered around the bonfire where a giant wicker man had been erected along side it. Marcus had felt an icy trickle of dread down his spine upon laying eyes on it. It almost made him laugh, in fact. A chilly feeling when faced with death by flame? He bowed his head and made a quiet prayer to any listening gods for a quiet death. He did not wish to cry out and shame himself.

He tried to distract himself with thoughts of the celebrations his friends and comrades in arms were having at the moment. In Rome, May first was celebrated with massive orgies and drinking. A lot like the Britons he found himself among. But back in Rome, Marcus had no fear of sacrifice.

A stir among the gathered people brought his attention back, and he watched as slices of a cake were handed out among a selected group off to the side. One of them, a young maiden of no more then fourteen summers, held hers aloft, and Marcus could just make out a charred section of it.

A slight man (the Druid, Marcus realized) stepped forward, garbed in loose pants and a bull skin cape. His face and chest was decorated in woad and his hair was wild, bird feathers twisted into them. He was small, his build wiry and familiar. And for the life of him, Marcus could not remember why he was so afraid of dying by the mans hand.

The Druid approached the girl as the crowd grew silent, placing a hand on her shoulder and speaking quietly in Gaelic, his words managing to reach the ears of all listening. Marcus cured, realizing how weak his Gaelic was.

The girl nodded and took a long drink from an offered cup, swaying slightly on her feet as the Druid lead her to a smaller wicker man.

No. Oh no. Marcus knew what the wicker man meant, but surely they did not sacrifice their own people?

The girl stepped inside and the Druid stepped back to the bonfire, lighting a branch. Stepping back to the girl, the sacrifice, he raised his hands and the flame to the sky, calling out to _Bile_. Marcus managed to catch something about the girl choosing to join him and then the rapid Gaelic offering her a peaceful death and entrance to Tir na N'Og.

The Druid lit the tinder under the wicker man and it caught quickly, flames licking high as if trying to reach the gods themselves.

Marcus sucked in a deep breath, eyes glued on the gruesome sight before him. He could just make out the face of the girl inside the fiery wicker man, her eyes shut. The crowd was eerily silent and the girl never cried out.

Marcus hoped he too would go with such dignity.

 

* * *

 

Esca dropped the torch back into the sacred fire, eyes fixed on Cottia as she burned. Never before had he sacrificed someone he knew, and he was shocked at how calm he felt.

Cottia had chosen to offer herself to Bile. After all, as the first Gael from the Otherworld to Eire, and the father of the first people, it was considered an honour to burn and return to him. He just hoped the drugged mead made it less painful.

The Roman sacrifice would not receive the same luxury. He would feel every lick of flame.

Esca peered at the entrance of the cave out of the corner of his eye, wondering how Marcus was taking all this. Would it change his views of the Britons? Of Esca? After all, the Romans did not know of the tradition of sacrifice among their own people.

Not for the first time that day, Esca found himself wishing that Marcus was born among the Brigantes. Then the man would understand the significance of the Rowan tree and the feathers in Esca's hair. Not their meaning, exactly, but that Esca knew something important, that he was forecasting the evening.

Fingering one of the feathers, his eyes turned grim. Blue, purple, grey, black, and speckled feathers. Esca was very glad that he was the only one familiar with their meanings among his clan.

Tonight brought a rebirth.

When Cottia's wicker man had burned down to embers, Esca turned to two warriors nearby and called out, “Bring the Roman!”

Deep within the cave, Marcus tensed, waiting for them to come into the cave and drag him off to his death. But they did not. Instead, they left the clearing and were gone for what seemed like eternity. Finally, they returned, dragging a man between them.

Marcus gasped, recognizing the stiff form of a Cohort-Commander he met shortly before reaching his station. For the life of him, he could not remember the mans name, but the sight of him brought mingled relief and sorrow. And shame. Marcus bit his cheek until it bleed, ashamed of his relief. No on deserved to die in his place.

It was strange, but Marcus was almost indignant that the Druid was not sacrificing him. After over a week of taunting and promising to, the man just went off and chose another? Marcus was supposed to be the intended sacrifice, and it was wrong that another would take him place.

He truly felt that his life was worth less than the Cohort-Commander. Marcus was the one who stumbled across the Druids grove, and he was the one who should bring the balance, as the man kept telling him. Not a man who's only sin was getting caught.

And the man was not going to die with dignity. He was struggling against the warriors grip, cursing at them, his eyes wide and bright, the whites showing. His voice was high and cracking, devoid off all pride and honour. All the man could focus on was the wicker man and the flames.

The warriors shoved him into the wooden cage, locking him in and stepping back to make way for the Druid and the torch. As the wood was lit, the Romans screams pierced the air, becoming more animal like as he went from cursing and praying to just screaming, the sound scouring though Marcus' ears.

The Druid was standing beside the burning effigy, hands raised yet again to the sky, chanting. His appearance seemed more feral, dramatic shadows cast by the flickering flames.

To Marcus' horror, despite the gruesome death playing out before him, he found himself panting, eyes locked on the Druid. The sheer power and magnificence displayed by the man had Marcus' blood aflame, burning him from the inside out, as if he were the one on the flames. It was shameful. It was erotic. It was fucked up.

 

* * *

 

Esca's eyes remained locked on the burning Roman, ears deaf to the screams. As the mans screams turned to death rattles and then silence, he found himself wondering how Marcus would have died.

In silence, Esca liked to think. But one would not know til one tried, and Esca's mind was made up.

He finished the ritual, watched as the men, then woman, then cattle jumped over the lingering flames and smoke. They then retreated back home where the couples, young and old, would go into the woods and contribute to the sexual forces that ruled the night.

When he was sure that none remained, and Esca had finished his rituals and offerings to the Tuatha Dé, he calmly walked over to the cave. In choosing not to sacrifice Marcus, he had decided on another way to satisfy the gods. Blood and sex. Death and fertility.

It was at times like this that Esca was glad he knew his craft so well, and thus knew of the loopholes. Marcus need not die to satisfy the gods and beings of the Underworld. Blood would be shed, but not the Romans life blood.

Marcus was exactly as he left him. Esca stood before him, proud in his ceremonial dress. He slid out the scythe at his side and, using the sharp curved blade, cut the flesh of his middle finger.

Crouching down to eye level with Marcus, even though the other could not make out Esca's face, he gently traced _beorc, eoel_ , and _is_ on the Romans face with his blood. Upon finishing that, and ignoring the breathy gasps escaping the mouth before him, he untied Marcus' hands and led him out under the stars before forcing him to his knees and pulling off the tunic covering the others broad shoulders. Over his heart, Esca traced _radh_ and between his shoulder _ing_. Kneeling before Marcus, he re-slit his finger and traced, ignoring the hitch of breath, _ur_ over the strong lower abdominal muscles.

Upon finishing, he reached out and took Marcus' hand, slowly dragging the blade across the olive skin. Marcus hissed lightly, but did not flinch and Esca knew he had made the right decision.

Grasping the bleeding palm with both hands, he bridged the gap between them and placed it on his chest, above the heart. Marcus' eyes were dark now, little pants escaping his mouth as he watched with rapt attention, free hand clenching the loose fabric of his braccae.

“Nemetona, Sacred Grove mother, accept this energy and blood as payment for the wrong committed.” Esca's voice came out husky and deeper than normal. Letting go of Marcus' hand, he stood and made his way behind the kneeling man, grabbing his hair and forcing his head back, baring the thick neck. “Morrigu, Dark Grey Lady, bless my offering and weave, life before death.” He shoved Marcus' head down while lowering his own. “Eriu, Earth Mother, Queen of the Tuatha Dé, bless me with your powers of the land.”

Esca slid down so that he was kneeling pressed against Marcus, and whispered in his ear, “Beltaine is a time of death and fertility, Roman. I chose to spare your life, but an offering must still be made.”

Marcus swallowed dryly and Esca could feel the pounding heartbeat beneath his chin. He grinned, sliding a hand around the solid waist, fingers tracing the drying bloody rune. “I think my gods will be satisfied with this.”

His fingers were now skimming the ties of Marcus' braccae, and Esca was thrilled to find a hardness beneath them that he had not expected. If both took pleasure from the offering, the more power behind the offering there was.

He nipped at the warm ear beside his mouth and tugged the laces free, slipping another hand around to slide the fabric down Marcus' hips and thighs. A sharp intake of breath reached his ears and Esca chuckled darkly.  
“Oh, I am going to enjoy this, Marcus.”

 

* * *

 

Marcus trembled with a combination of fear and arousal, straining against the cloth binding his hands around one of the smaller standing stones. Mithras, why was this happening to him, this shameful event? And why was his body betraying him so, meeting each thrust and trembling with each withdrawal?

When the Druid had at last wrapped his small (and so damn delicate and _fuck_ if that hadn't turned him on in some twisted way) hand around Marcus' cock, reality and realization coursed through him and had brought him fighting against the body behind him.

In a surprising move, the smaller Briton had managed to twist and pin Marcus' body beneath him and, using the stronger mans shock to his advantage, was able to jerk both arms in front and around a nearby standing stone before tying them. Marcus had found himself bound tight and with a finger in a place that had never been invaded so before. Struggling had just lead to bleeding wrists and a (oh Mithras who knew?!) foreign cock sliding in.

So here Marcus was, hands slick with blood and sweat, lip swollen from so far successful attempts at keeping his voice silent, being fucked like a cheap whore.

His inner soldier was in shock at the turn of events. And shamed at being manipulated so easily in a mockery of a fight.

His inner Roman was curled up in a corner, beating its head against the ground, ashamed at being taken so by a man around his own age.

Marcus' body and mind were at war and it was making him furious.

“D- Druid,” Marcus gasped out, brows creased in an attempt to focus, “Do I not get to know the name of the man who shames me so?”

A breathless laugh sounded behind him, a hand gripping tighter at his already bruised hips. “That was a poor attempt, _Marcus_.” The tone inflicted upon his name held mockery, breathless as it was. “Names hold power, power leads to slavery or death.”

The Druid shifted just so, and Marcus could not keep the keening moan from escaping his throat. “Please.”

There was a brief silence filled with the slick sounds of the- not love making, but not fucking. Marcus was not sure what to call it. He refused to think of it as a virgin sacrifice.

The Druid sighed heavily, his hand coming to grip Marcus' hair and, pulling his head back bearing his throat, brought his own face closer to the abused neck. Nipping at the salty skin found there, he whispered “Esca.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:  
> *Rising at dawn to watch the sunrise from a hilltop is considered lucky on Beltaine.  
> *Rowan branches are placed as protection over the doors of barns and houses.  
> *Little People- the Tuatha Dé Danann were the original fae folk (but human height and such), when they went underground, they became the Sidhe, aka faeries. Fascinating story behind them, go read it!  
> *The Wicker Man sacrifices are considered by some historians as propaganda spread to create hate for the Celts, but all my Druid books say they were used, so I'm going with it. I am taking major liberties with this part, but all for the sake of fiction, eh? One example: I seriously doubt that the Druids would burn a Wicker Man inside their Sacred Grove if the grove was as shaded by trees as Esca's. Let's say the gods kept the place from going up in flames.  
> *Beltaine IS a time of mass sexual energy. Couples would retreat into the forests to get it on. It is a time of fertility and death.  
> *I took SOOO much liberty with Esca's appearance. It seemed more dramatic, and the bird feathers are an obscure reference to Feather Augury.  
> -Blue: Love, kinship, a gift  
> -Purple: A journey or trip, nobility, balance  
> -Grey: Peace of mind, tranquillity, meditation  
> -Black: Misfortune, bad luck, transformation, death  
> Speckled: Divine guidance, star wisdom  
> *The Runes:  
> Beorc- Birch Goddess, Earth Mother; the Threefold cycle of birth, life, and death; oneness and protection.  
> Eoel- Inheritance, noble, immobile ancestral property, homeland; inherited power, wealth, prosperity, and family. (this is actually my rune! :D)  
> Is- Ice, Primal matter/antimatter; the powers of creation, concentration, and ego integration and balance  
> Radh- Solar wagon, chariot, universal rhythm, rune of ritual and natural law  
> Ing- Hero, Earth God, storehouse of potential energy, gestation, fertility, and sexuality.  
> Ur- Aurock, Bison, Ox, the primal forming forces, the cosmic seed.


	3. Apple Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FANART! (kinda contains spoilers for this chapter if you haven't read it at the original eagle kink post)
> 
> http://minyarhiel.pixnet.net/blog/post/43193620%29to
> 
> Thankyou, luv! I love it! :D  
> And I think this a fantastic summary for this chapter since the fanart is of the major scene in it. :)  
> (also, the banner thingy for this chapter is just a pic from my trip to Scotland a few years back)

  
  
Esca was at war with himself. He was finding himself so more often lately, and it annoyed him to no end. It was all thanks to Marcus and that... sacrifice.

He had not meant for it to mean anything more than he wanted. Esca had chosen to spare the Romans life. And he was now finding himself following the other mans every move. Before, he had merely observed and kept an eye on the soldier, but now, he found himself watching with a hawk like eye, never letting the man out of his sight.

It had been foolish to give his given name. As he had said that night, he cock encased in tight heat, names hold power. Merely giving his name to the other man seemed to have placed him under a spell. Esca needed to do something about it.

But there was only two choices before him he could think of. One was impossible, could never happen as much as Esca found himself wanting it to. Merely thinking of the other option brought a pain to his chest which was much more then physical.

So here he was, sitting deep in the cave, a handful of steps away from the shivering Roman, chin on his knees, deep in thought as he stared. Esca bit his lip, frowning as Marcus moaned deep in his throat, voice loose with delirium. The fever was setting in fast, infection from the newly opened wound and the damp speeding up it's effects.

Marcus had taken to shunning hims since the sacrifice, ignoring his swinging foot in the trees, scoffing at the food and drink offered to him. It appeared that the shame of being taken on his knees like a common dog had wounded his pride.

Early that morning Esca had watched as the fool removed the bindings on his wound and promptly torn the healing flesh open upon a jagged stone edge as he stumble against a standing stone. If he had eaten, he would not have been so light headed.

Over the next few hours, he had watched as the wound became infected and the fever started to show its signs. He had considered calling out to Marcus, to tell him to clean the infected flesh, to offer to help. But shame and curiosity had staid his tongue. When Marcus had stumbled into the cave and collapsed onto his side, Esca had followed and observed as the other man tossed and turned, a feverish chill wracking his body.

Even now, he was not sure what to do. To help or to leave him, allow nature to take it's course. Would he live or die?

But the two options presented to him now were as confusing as the other two. He did not want the man to die. But neither did he want to wound his pride by helping him.

Esca would not, could not, admit that he was feeling guilt at what he had done those nights back on Beltaine. He did not regret it, but he felt guilt.

Marcus had been far to tight, to stiff and yet sensitive, to have been used to what Esca had done. He should feel pride and vicious pleasure at having taken the mans innocence so, as any other man of his tribe would have. But Esca could no longer view Marcus as a Roman.

He wanted to take Marcus away from Rome, from everything he knew. He wanted to own him and to brand his mark-less skin with the marks of his clan, with his name.

He burned with the want to claim the other as his own, even as he lay before Esca delirious with fever.

  
  


***

  
_Marcus awoke to darkness and eerie silence.  
His leg felt like it was on fire and he was clammy, body trembling with weakness brought on by the sick. Breathing harshly, he shifted in attempt to sit up but a cool hand pressed against his shoulder and forced him back down._

_A hand raised his head slightly and an wooden cup pressed against his mouth, icy liquid pouring in. As he chocked, the bitter taste sharp upon his tongue, a low comforting sound came from beside him and the hand holding his head lightly stroke his neck._

“ _Rest. You will not die without my permission, Marcus.”_

_Marcus sighed with relief, intent on following the order._

 

* * *

 

He was growing desperate. Marcus' fever had yet to break, and aside from the one moment when he had woken briefly, the Roman had remained unconscious. It had been a day and a half since he fell ill and Esca had tried every spell, tincture, and herb he could think of. Nothing had worked and if he left it much longer, Marcus would die. And even if he did not, his mind would never be the same again.

So here he was, dragging the heavy (and tall, and muscled, and damn if Esca wasn't a bit envious) man towards the hidden spring. Before the sacrifice, he would never have considered bringing the man to his special spot, but he could not, would not, allow him to die.

The way Marcus had reacted to his order had nothing to do with it. Neither did the way the man had curled towards his voice after passing out again.

Esca grunted, pausing for a moment to swipe a hand across his slick brow. Taking a deep breath, he wrapped his hand around the fur he was using to drag the other man, and continued backing his way through the forest and closer to the waters he could now hear bubbling deep behind the trees and brush.

Breaking through the bramble, he fell back and dragged Marcus along so that he was laying on his back with the heavy man on top of him. He huffed and managed to wriggle his way out from beneath him before kneeling down to strip the man.

His face was cool, but his eyes were frantic, as he tugged off the tunic, untied the knotted mess of a belt, and tugged the filthy braccae down Marcus' legs.

Standing, Esca stripped and slipped into the warm waters, instantly sinking waist deep. Placing his palms flat on the top of the water, he tipped his face back and took a deep grounding breath. “Bridget, I call upon you to heal this man. I have tried to heal him without intruding upon you, but his fever is strong. Please, sacred Lady, he is Roman in body only. See the man I see and grant him the strength to heal and live.”

He waded back over to the side and hooked his arms under Marcus' armpits and hauled, pulling his slack body over the grass and into the embracing waters. When the other man was in, Esca positioned him so that only his broad shoulders and head rose about the water, leaning Marcus back so that his head rested in the crook of Esca's neck.

He sighed deeply, running a wet hand through the dirty hair and pressed his cheek against the others forehead. For the ears of his Goddess and Marcus only, he whispered “Heal the man I have come to love, sweet Lady. As much as it pains me to do so.”  
Esca had never been so terrified for another in his life. He had been worried, after all his father and brothers often headed off to battle, but as the years went on and they grew more and more distant he felt less fear.

But Marcus...

He tucked his face into the neck of the overly warm body he held and clenched his eyes shut. He feared that Bridget was forsaking his pleas as the heartbeat beneath his chin was becoming more and more thready and weak. Esca's grip tightened as Marcus let out a low whimper and weakly flailed in his embrace.

“Please...” Marcus' voice was weak and harsh with thirst. “No... Mithras, please.” Delirious with fever, he twisted some more in Esca's grip. The Brigante bit his lip, worried that the other would reopen his wound. “Father! _Father_! The darkness, please. Help...”

The thready heartbeat beneath his chin was thrumming, dangerously fast in his condition. “Marcus. Marcus, Centurion, listen to me. Calm down. You are not alone. The dark cannot get you here, Marcus. My masters will protect you and I from harm.” Esca gently rubbed his hands across Marcus' chest and abdomen, long calming strokes. “I will not let the dark take you.” He could not keep his voice from cracking during the last part, the tears threatening to fall blurring his eyes. His voice seemed to breach the fog of fever, for Marcus settled and his brows smoothed.

 

* * *

  
Yet again, Marcus opened his eyes to darkness. He felt warm, overly so, like a fire was flickering away at his back and it was just starting to die down to the embers. He moaned softly, eyes fluttering as he moved sore limbs. A soft intake of breath behind him caught his attention and a hand came to rest on his chest, above his heart.

Esca let out a slow breath, relief coursing through him as he felt the stronger heartbeat beneath his palm. He turned his head so that his chin was resting on Marcus' sweat damp hair and left his hand where it was. “Thank you, Bridget.”

He tightened his arms around the other man, savouring the feeling of the warm body he embraced, knowing that soon he would have to let him go. Once the Roman was conscious and lucid, he would not tolerate Esca holding him so.

Marcus, however, was enjoying the calming feeling of the other holding him so, but he was slightly feverish still. He decided that sleeping some more would be a good idea, and slid into a deep healing rest.

 

* * *

 

Esca sat on a stone near the newly erected hut, twisting ropes together into an intricate knotted pattern. Every few seconds he would glance through the opening and towards a bed of furs full with Marcus' unconscious form. He let out a deep breath through his nose, mouth tightening as his hands continued with their intricate pattern.

He was in love with Marcus. He could not deny it. How could he? After the fear he had felt for the other, the tears he had shed during the height of Marcus' illness. When the Roman had slipped into a healing sleep, he had dragged his form back to the grove and erected a hut to keep him out of the elements and the cave.

Now that Esca knew of the others fear of the dark, he vowed to keep him out of the cave. And to keep a fire burning during the darkest nights.

Finishing the knot, he trimmed the ends so that they fused seamlessly and stood. Making his way quietly into the hut, he placed it beside a cup of water that sat within Marcus' view. He doubted that the Roman would know what it meant to Esca and his people, but he had to try.

He may be in love with the other man, but he had no idea how Marcus felt. So, in an oh so cunning plan, Esca had vowed to woo him with symbols of his love and interest day by day. His first act had been placing the wooden eagle back around Marcus' neck. The second had been tying the Lovers' Knot for him. Call it optimistic of him, but Esca would have Marcus as his own.

Eventually....

Possibly?

 

***  
  


The first thing Marcus became aware of as the sweet embrace of slumber left him was warmth. Not the feverish warmth or bodily warmth he had woken to over the last few (days? hours? Marcus was not sure), but a bone deep comforting warmth.

He moaned lightly, stretching his long limbs under the warm furs. Rubbing a palm over his eyes, removing the last traces of sleep, he smacked his lips and frowned lightly at the taste. It reminded him of the time when he was a young boy and caught an illness that was passing among the youth. Fever dryness and gummy illness.

“Mmph...” He glanced around looking for water before noticing a cup beside his bed. Reaching, he bonelessly leaned out of the bed of furs and snagged it, taking long slow sips of the liquid. It was room temperature, but on his parched tongue it felt like the gods nectar and he finished it quickly.

Once the cup was empty, he took stock of the room and frowned again. A hut. Someone had placed him in a hut. The frown deepened. The Druid- surely he had not.

But the more he looked about, the more Marcus realized that yes, Esca had put up a hut for him. It was not large, just big enough for one or two people, but the grass was somehow familiar to him and through the open flap he could see the shadowy forms of the standing stones and the deep dark blue of the starry sky he was so acquainted with.

Sitting up, Marcus rubbed at the back of his neck and the frown turned to one of confusion as he felt the thick cord against his skin. Looking down, he sucked in a quick breath, reverently cradling the wooden eagle in his palms. He had given up all hopes of ever seeing it again and the sheer relief and joy of having it back brought tears to his eyes.

” _Father...”_

He stayed there for a few minutes, fighting back the tears and relief before a pressing need forced him out of the bed and, staggering, out of the hut. Marcus glanced around in the dark, but could not make out any trace of Esca. Shrugging, he hobbled over to a nearby tree to relieve himself.

Making his way back to the hut, he plopped back down on the bed and ignored the hungry rumbling of his stomach. Marcus grabbed the cup and a previously unnoticed jug of water and poured another cup, sipping as he took in his surroundings in greater detail.

“What...” There was a knotted length of rope where the cup had been and he picked it up, curious. It was slightly familiar but for the life of him he could not remember where he had last seen it. Maybe in one of the villages he had marched though or on one of the warriors he had killed. But why had the Druid left by him?

Marcus was not thick by any means, so even he could tell that something had changed how Esca viewed him, but in what way he was not sure. The man went through the trouble of erecting a hut for him, caring for him during the thick of illness, and left him water. He had even returned the eagle.

Maybe he was sick of Marcus and wanted to get rid of him.

Marcus physically flinched at the thought, surprised at the shot of hurt that went though him at the idea that the other was so tired, _so bored_ of him that he did not want to even kill him. That Esca would rather send him off on his way then have another moment of his presence in life or death.

He slipped beneath the furs, intent on ignoring the feeling that something had been pulled from his chest.

 

* * *

 

Esca bit down on the leather in his mouth, face clenched in pain as the ink laced needle pierced his skin for what felt like the thousandth time. Tears pricked the back of his eyes and he blinked them away furiously. No tears. The Serch Bythol was everlasting love, and no tears would be shed during its making. It felt like a curse to do so.

He heaved in a gasping breath as Lugh pulled back and wiped his back with a damp cloth. “Are they worth all the pain, Esca?” came the amused baritone of the older mans voice.

Esca snarled lightly and cracked his neck. “You know the meaning of the symbol, Lugh.” An unvoiced _more then you could possibly imagine_ hung in the air. In his tribe, tattooing oneself with the Serch Bythol was the ultimate proclamation and claim. By marking himself with the symbol, Esca was proclaiming to the rest of his family and clan that if they or anyone else hurt the one he loved, he would reap retribution upon them.

Well, technically. He would have to find a way to mark Marcus with something to symbolize him first. And allow the other to pick out a symbol for himself to be added to the tattoo later.

“Alright, brace yourself.” The needle slid back in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Esca's love feels too sudden and out of nowhere, oh well. I tend to loose interest in things and if I drag this out longer I'll never finish it. :/  
> * Serch Bythol - Everlasting Love  
> This Celtic symbol of everlasting love is formed from two triskeles. The triskeles, three cornered knots, denote the three aspects of two people, body, mind and spirit. The two triskeles, joined together, show a circle, the everlasting circle of eternity. Thus the figure represents two people, joined in body, mind, and spirit in everlasting love.  
> I completely bullshit the tattooing to mark his claim thing. I just have a thing for tattoos claiming love and possession in a way only certain people can understand...   
> Lugh is actually one of the Tuatha Dé Kings.  
> APPLE SEEDS- I was planning on having each chapter with just Rowan and Alder trees in the title, but that seems to no longer be the plan. :) Apple Trees are the trees of love. They have a lot of symbolism and magical meanings. It is referred to a “shelter for a wild hunt”, but also as a “shelter for lunatics”... It has a lot of meanings, but in this case it represents Esca's budding love. Hah! Budding!  
> Too much caffeine.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was my fill for a prompt, and it is still a wip. Posting this in bits and pieces.  
> Notes:  
> *Twice Born- initiation involving a Druid staying for three nights and days in a cave or mound. When they emerge on the third day, they were twice born.  
> *Dolmens- large upright stones covered by a cap stone covered with dirt.  
> The Prayer of Destruction is from the book A Book of Pagan Prayer, by Ceisiwr Serith.  
> *Pen Annwen- Celtic (Welsh) underworld god.  
> *Belenus- Celtic (Continental European and probably Irish) associated with light, solar worship and healing. Beltine or Cetshamain (May 1st) fires are lit for him. I chose him because one of his sanctuaries is in northern Italy in Aquileia and the similarity between it and Marcus' last name made me giggle.  
> *Mithras- Greco-Roman god of Soldiers. Symbolizes Loyalty and truth. The cult did do it rituals and sacrifices in an underground temple and their sacrifice was a bull. Exclusively male cult when under Roman influence (first to second century AD)  
> *Fae cursed- I don't know if this is actually a term or idea, but I figure it would be a good way to describe a hallucinogenic plant. 'Liberty cap' magic mushrooms (psilocybe semilanceata) to be precise.  
> As for the title, Rowan trees earned their names for their ability to grown on rocky outcrops. Rowan comes from old Norse runa, which means Spell or Charm. In Celtic legends, they appear mainly in connection with the Druids or other magic practitioners. Thus, Rowan represents Esca.  
> Alder was used for warrior shields, thanks to their toughness and bloody appearance when first felled. They were known for their ability to withstand hard blows and yet be easy to work with. Aireinech Fian (Shield of warrior bands) means to Protect or Take care of. Thus, Alder represents Marcus.


End file.
